Saturday, March 6, 2010

A Cracked Wound

What the baby sees

The fire swirls thorough the enter. The tormented wails of those dragged by the undertow swings down and away. The ears bleed with their melancholy songs. The winds are daggers. They shred, they tear, they bore. They run thorough like the lance, the spear, the sword. They pierce the heart like love and leave the body like death. There are horses, as if from a distance, and their skin is black as blood. Their eyes are skulls crusted in ruby. They pull on a chariot of gnashing teeth and sowed bones. And their rider is as dark as they, and he cracks his brutal whip that sounds like every lost boy reaching out for their mother. It rides on and at it's back, darkness awakes.


The mobile spins.

"She's beautiful." 
"Yeah. She is."
"Look at her. Like an angel. So perfect."
They smile, looking in. 
"I wonder what she's dreaming of."

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